


the owl and the tanager

by iacet



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Compliant, Elliot and Leo Can't Catch a Break, Elliot's Horrible Family (Sans Vincent and Gil), Hurt/Comfort, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, elliot lives au, elliot loves leo, glen's schemes, leo loves elliot, vincent's schemes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iacet/pseuds/iacet
Summary: After the events at Isla Yura's mansion, Leo and Elliot are forced to pick up the pieces of what's left of the world.(It's an uphill battle.)
Relationships: Leo Baskerville/Elliot Nightray
Comments: 15
Kudos: 16





	1. sleep awake

“You’re fidgeting.” 

“I wouldn’t fidget if you could keep your hands still.”

“That’s not really the point of this, is it?” 

“Your hands are cold.”

“And that’s somehow _your_ problem?”  
  
  
Elliot knows that’s not the point. Deep down where the incuse against his skin aches, he knows that there is no way to avoid Leo’s doting, as futile as he views it to be. It’s not the only thing that he notices, however — and Leo curses that his master has chosen this moment in particular for cleverness to seep into every little glance his way (of which there are a decent amount even in the few minutes that Leo had stepped into the room). Calculated doesn’t suit Elliot. He’s supposed to be clumsy and short-sighted. He’s supposed to have pieces for Leo to gather up and put together to figure out, never the other way around. It must have been a newly-acquired skill of his, like that part of Elliot had truly died on the cold tile of Isla Yura’s floor with his mother (with his sister, with the children, and people, and things that haunt Leo’s consciousness and only add to the darkening bags under his eyes that Elliot stubbornly _refuses_ to ignore these days). Understanding does that to a person. Leo’s sharpness has _some_ origin, after all — but what was supposed to contrast now only adds more edges to their blur, an unrefined mess to skin their knees and elbows on.

It takes everything in him not to gag at the sight of Elliot’s blood as he undoes the wrapping around his forehead, thick and coagulated where the fabric creased — it’s old, dark, and flaky around the edges which makes what he sees in its place seem more like some half-awake dream that leaves him gripping for the body next to him. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He doesn’t allow himself that privilege anymore, to grasp at Elliot like there’s any other reason why he requires his bandages changed, why his left hand lacks mobility (for the moment, one of the many books he’s read had assured him, but there would be a lasting scar, the most important bit: movement was possible in time). What he sees is straightforward: he knows exactly where he is — tucked away in some part of the Nightray manor and it’s better than the alternative, he supposes. There’s an empty vase on the table. In the haste of their departure, he had forgotten to water the Limonium. It turned into a joke, Leo finding them in the garden on that random afternoon of exploration. _Servant’s work_ , Ernest had reminded as he passed Leo’s quarters that evening. If only they could see him now.

The makeshift bed that Leo had made by expertly connecting to chairs and a pillow he stole from Elliot’s room has been cleared away in a nervous rush upon the miraculous discovery that Elliot had woken up. Still, the metal tang against the back of Elliot’s throat when he clears it isn’t doing him any favors. It serves as a bitter reminder of the source of his pain — not that he would dare to see it that way. Leo swallows and the bed creaks under his weight.

“Alright. Get it over with.” Elliot says with a wave of his uninjured hand and the finality of a man at the edge of the gallows — Leo, his executioner; who has taken to picking at the roll of bandages, trying to find the edge when it had been turned twice-over. It’s not like him to be nervous, but it’s not like Elliot to make him nervous, either. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Leo knows a thing or two about Elliot. His unrelenting nature is equal parts endearing as it is incredibly infuriating, which circles back to admiration and ties his heart in complicated knots that he can’t personally tend to on his own. Elliot wants anger, holy retribution, and thinks he’ll find it in the one dressing his wounds. He’s wrong, but Leo might be even worse off, because he wants a damnation to put Elliot’s to _shame_ . “Let me see your hand.”  
  
Elliot has nice hands. Of course, Leo wouldn’t debase himself with admitting there was such a thing as _ugly_ hands, because to him, it’s all subjective and not necessarily meaningful, but it sours him to think that anything of Elliot’s could ever be described quite as ugly. How Elliot could even _speak_ at him right now, he can’t understand. 

“No.”  
  


It takes Leo a moment to process that this is his reality, Elliot leaned against the bed frame, bruised, hurt, but _alive_ and _defying_ him. It snaps him out of what he could piece together between the spaces of golden flecks. His brows pull together and he’s confused in the way that he’s rarely ever been with him. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m trying to —”

“No, you’re not.” Elliot’s voice is an unnerving calm, treading on _knowing._ It’s a contrast that Leo doesn’t have the time to judge. He sounds tired, tired of excuses and tired of being seen as weak. 

“That’s presumptuous.” A moment’s pause. They eye each other, waiting for the next move to be taken. Under normal circumstances, he might have rapped him on the cheek, but Leo can scarcely meet his gaze and, yes, he’s aware that gives credence to his claims, but he’s too wrapped up in taking in the slight purse of his lips and the twitch of a blonde eyebrow to care about the semantics of their wordless argument. _Idiot. You stupid, stubborn idiot_ , but it comes out as ‘ _Elliot_ ’ in an exasperated sigh, too-gentle in a way that he knows raises defenses. Leo reaches for his wrist, which is jerked away a second before he can get a good grasp on his sleeve.

“Leo.” They haven’t talked about it yet. How could they start a conversation they’ve tried to have a hundred times before?

Time for Leo to try a different approach, it seems.

“Isn’t it my duty as a servant to protect you? You’ve said it yourself.” Or was that only before he had found himself at the center of Elliot’s misfortune? He feels he already knows the answer. Besides, it isn’t like Leo had paid particular attention to the _Do's_ and _Don'ts_ of servitude, but his need to protect Elliot is beyond the reaches of a mere agreement. Maybe, before, Leo might have adopted those views to appease the watchful eye of Vanessa and Elliot's brothers, but he knew that it was beyond that. _They_ knew.

“You know that’s not what this is. It’s like you can’t even _look_ at me _._ I already know I screwed up, okay? So just, come on, and let me have it already. I’m sick of you not talking to me. Hell, i’m sick of you being _scared_ of me, like I would even _think_ about —” Whatever sentiment he’s about to make falls silent when Leo pulls back like he’s been burned. Now Elliot’s reaching for purchase, something to stabilize him — them, as a collective — until the natural order of the world gives away and there’s cohesion once again. It’s so familiar that Leo wants to cry. Instead, he starts laughing. Loudly. Enough to alert Vincent, probably. But he can’t think about Vincent. He doesn’t want to think about what he knows now, and he certainly isn’t going to bother Elliot with those particular details at the moment. (He hates it, really: the way Vincent looks at him, putting him on a crumbling pedestal). He had something of a similar break when Leo found Elliot’s body, crumpled and stained red, ink spilled over a blank music sheet. Gifts for each other. How embarrassing and futile after everything… but they were still dear to him. How selfish of him was it that he wouldn’t change a thing?

“ _Me_ ? Scared of _you_? Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Now Elliot’s been thrown off kilter, tugging at Leo’s sleeve like the answers would fall from the space between the cuff and his wrist.

“What?” There’s a crack in his voice, as if Elliot hadn’t killed to protect him and continued to kill if he hadn’t been stopped by his own body. Too endearing for the moment, like Leo had surprised him. _Idiot._ Almost on cue, his cheeks puff out slightly in bashful frustration. Leo’s chest feels lighter by the second. “It’s not like you wouldn’t have a reason.” 

He’s not sure if he’s laughing or crying anymore, but he has to take off his glasses, which makes Elliot’s hand drop in response to fidget with and place on the edge of his nightstand. If one moves, the other follows, but Elliot’s focused in that familiar way whenever Leo takes off his glasses, which always makes heat creep up the back of his neck. A part of him suspects that the only reason Elliot allowed him to help in the first place (after days of sitting by his bedside) is because of the opportunity to see his eyes unobstructed. Now’s not the time to focus on _that_. “I meant what I said, then. You’re… a gentle person, Elliot. You wouldn’t have hurt anyone if…” He doesn’t want to finish the sentence. It was all because of him. 

“If what?”

Leo’s head dips and shoves the roll at Elliot’s chest. “You know why.” 

“That’s not an answer!” True to fashion, Elliot is shoving it back at his chest _with_ his injured hand, which makes him wince and Leo swat his shoulder in retaliation, like his basest instincts are dug up in this moment of extreme uncertainty. 

“Elliot, your hand —”

“That doesn’t matter right now.” Although, Leo’s almost certain his stitches would burst with the sudden, excessive movement of grabbing his collar. The grip almost immediately falters and instead, warm fingertips shift Leo’s jaw. “Hey. Look at me.” 

He doesn’t. Rather, he can’t. A few strands of hair obstruct his view, but that’s okay, because from out of the corner of his eye, he can see Elliot scoff. “So stubborn. You haven’t changed since we met, you know that?” 

“Actually, that’s not true in the slightest.” He starts through a hard-to-hide sniffle. He was about to say that he had grown more tolerant of his diatribes, until he was swiftly cut off.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

There’s another silence between them, but in a sense, it feels easier. Finally, though, Leo does turn. He can feel the heat under his eyes, his face warm from crying and the natural gravitational pull whenever Elliot is in his orbit. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care what it is at the moment. Relief and exhaustion go hand-in-hand. “I thought I killed you. Is that what you want me to say?”

Surprisingly, the words themselves are hollow, the sort of practiced calm that accompanies what had been drilled into his skull for two years.

“Leo,” and it’s spoken so incredibly soft that he has to press his nails into his palms, “you can’t be serious.” Elliot has the audacity to sound offended and that, and only that, makes Leo huff out and scrub at his eyes.

“Am I wrong?” Old resentments rise in him. “I’m the reason you formed the contract in the first place. If it weren’t for me, you’d be fine. _Your family_ would be fine. You could still play the piano. I know you’re upset about that, at least, so you can do us both a favor and admit that much.”

“I’m not stupid. You can tell _Vincent_ whatever you’d like,” which is spoken with enough vitriol that Leo makes a note to question that particular line of thinking, ”but you should know that I can see through that. You wanted to save me after I —” A barb of pain shoots through his chest and his shoulders tense up, noticeable enough that Leo’s furrowed brows falter. “Don’t even think about worrying about me right now. What kind of master am I, letting you get so worked up after something so stupid? Over _my own_ decisions? As for the piano, you’ll play for me.” 

“...Huh?”

“You heard me. That’s what you’re worried about, right? Don’t tell me you’ve been slacking on practicing because I've been in bed.” Leo has, but he isn’t about to admit that, even if it’s an unspoken certainty between them. Even if Vincent had to physically drag him out of the room to eat, which had, suspiciously, earned him a bruised cheek the following morning. “When I get these out,” his fingers flex to indicate the stitches sewn in a laced line, “we’ll play together again.” 

“You’re still upset.” Leo says, characteristically blunt and Elliot has half a mind to pinch his cheek for ruining the moment. Still, there’s something in Leo’s shoulders that says that he’s relaxed, at least somewhat. The heat that crept up his neck rose to his face. 

“...Of course I’m upset, but — I can’t run away. I told that brat the same thing; _as if_ I’d let him get the last say.” Elliot hesitates in the next second, his eyes looking tired, like they really had tripped over each other fighting. There’s a flicker of apprehension before it’s all falling forward and Elliot’s head presses to Leo’s chest, his injuries be damned.   
  


“Alright. I’ll give you something worth listening to, if that’s really what you want." Leo has no choice but to falter. His arms wrap around Elliot’s waist, two bodies trembling as they hold one another, like a foundation had placed beneath them and they’re finally allowed to rest on solid ground.

“You’re an idiot if you think I’ll ever let you pull something like that again.” And for a moment, Elliot thinks he’s going to get what he deserves. However, Leo pauses and rests his chin on the top of his head. “But I know you’ve beat yourself up over it, so that’s all I’ll say for now.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Elliot mutters, his face buried against his shirt as he breathes in. His sigh almost sounds like acceptance. 

They don’t bother with the knock at the door. 

(Looking back, they probably should have.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i picked pandora hearts up again after years and these two always tug at my heartstrings. i'm considering continuing this, with leo navigating himself as glen with elliot at his side, but let me know what you think!
> 
> and i think i'll keep using song lyrics as chapter titles! this one in particular is sleep awake by mother mother. give it a listen, if you haven't!
> 
> thank you for reading.


	2. futile devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent's role raises questions in Elliot. Leo has unexpected answers.

“He’s awake, you know. You don’t need to sneak around.” Vincent chimes, unhelpful as ever. He’s perched himself conveniently around the corner of Elliot’s room with his arms crossed against his chest, which catches him by surprise, because that is the exact place that Leo's headed. 

What a coincidence. 

How _quaint._

He wants to die. 

“You don’t have to remind me.” He _already_ hates this conversation and takes a defiant step back, as if the space itself would be enough of a physical barrier to let it simmer out and die. His chest puffs out on instinct, ready to bark an order, because that’s apparently the only thing that Vincent will _actually_ respond to. “I was _there.”_

_Then, in a flash, he wasn’t, racing to the bathroom, spilling his guts and hyperventilating the second he managed to get the door open. Alive — Elliot, breathing when Leo had felt the stall of his concave chest. Elliot would know. Voices in his ears like static electricity, popping in and out of his consciousness and the world falling into a grainy haze. Elliot would know that it was all his fault. No, he would_ **_remember ,_ ** _and the crushing weight of revelation would turn against him, as it was always meant to be._

“You’re right. You’ve been to see him. The fourth time this week, if I recall. Unless, of course, you’ve been sneaking out without supervision? It’s probably much, _much_ more than that.” Yes, yes and _yes_ , but Leo doesn’t want to confirm anything that might get Elliot into more trouble than he already is or give Vincent the satisfaction that he’s correct. The headache that Pandora would be has only been mitigated by his injuries. The _surviving_ members of Pandora, that is, those that would dare approach _two_ of the Headhunters suspects, which as Leo has come to learn, are very, very few.

“I knew you were strange, but I thought you were above _stalking_ — or, I forget, is that only reserved for immediate family?” It’s spoken with such a blatant intent that it surprises Leo himself, but he doesn’t regret it. Not for a second, because Vincent should know better than to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, especially after what Elliot has been through. With Duke Nightray still running amok...

A gloved hand raises to mask Vincent’s chuckle. It’s an act. Leo knows it is. Vincent has heard that sort of thing throughout his entire life and as much as Leo wants to hurt him with the sentiment, it’s nothing more than a twisted joke. Knowing him, he probably saw it that way. He’s just looking for a reaction. The thought makes a shiver crawl up his spine and Leo tries to sidestep, only for Vincent to move into his path. It was an old, one-sided game they used to play, but this time, Leo is a lot less intimidated and is more inclined to kick him in the ankle. He succeeds. 

“I don’t need supervision from the likes of you.” He tries again to get him to drop the topic, shoulders tensed and fists balled. He knows it’s all going to circle back to Elliot anyway as the world always does, but for the moment, Vincent’s involvement in their proceedings puts him even more on edge. What part of privacy doesn’t he understand?

“You’re sounding more like Glen everyday,” comes an expelled breath, the force of the kick radiating up his right leg. He admires the streak of dirt that the heel of Leo’s shoe left. 

‘Glen’ has Leo flinching and he reaches for a sword that isn’t his and that he _doesn’t have_ . He hates the comparison more than anything. He doesn’t _want_ to split himself into pieces in order to fit his predestined mold, but the pedestal had been built a hundred years before. As far as the Baskervilles are concerned, it’s a waiting game. “Don’t call me that around Elliot, either. You’re his brother and you’ll just make him feel worse if he has to hear it from you.”

“But Elliot isn’t here.” Another secret smile as his back straightens. It’s infuriating. 

Leo stays silent, bites the inside of his cheek, and adjusts his glasses.

“...He’ll find out eventually. You can’t protect him from the truth forever.” It’s almost helpful, Leo would give him that. Of course Elliot would find out. He’s perceptive of Leo’s quirks. If he so much as sighed wrong, Elliot would siddle at his side and bump his shoulder in that non-verbal _you’re-hiding-something way_ of his. 

“I… want to be the one to tell him.” Something in him laughs at his own embarrassment. He recognizes it without much of a struggle: _Levi._

“You have quite the soft spot for him. Do you really think he’ll take it better if he hears it from _you_?” 

Leo doesn’t return to Elliot’s room that night. 

* * *

When he does, however, it’s with Vincent in tow. 

“Your hair,” is the first thing Elliot says when Leo steps into his view and a part of him wishes that the other would have commented on literally anything else (the tray in his hands that he almost drops, maybe, teacups sparkling in the grey light and filled to the brim in what he hopes isn’t a futile attempt to get Elliot looking less _pale,_ less _dead_ ). He sounds breathless in a way that makes Leo think he’s strained, but the sight had knocked the wind out of him instead. It’s more a half-second sputter that’s impossible to retract. 

“Is it that noticeable?” Leo asks, the tray set on his nightstand after he’s done rearranging the saucer of cream and sugar bowl, something to do with his hands. Who’s fidgeting now?

But Elliot’s already trying to climb out of bed in spite of the chiding he knows he’ll receive (and the ache that trails any too-sudden moment of his chest or back, but that’s what the warnings are for). To him, it’s more than worth it. Leo wouldn’t cut his hair. Never that short, at least. Wisps of it are tied together near the nape of his neck with a sky blue ribbon. He’s so momentarily transfixed that he doesn’t remember to close the book in his lap, which clatters to the floor with a noisy thump against the hollow floor. “Of course it’s noticeable. Who — What the hell, Leo? And where are your glasses?”

“Your tea’s getting cold. You’re not going to waste it, are you?” Which only makes Elliot more determined to follow up on the thread that he’s tightly clutching between his fingers. 

Once he’s over the initial shock of the _why-didn’t-you-tell-me_ sentiment, his eyes cease their scrutiny, almost bashful as he glances off. Some part of him forgets how indecent it feels to see Leo’s face unobstructed and they return, only to flicker off again. He’s in Leo’s space, bandaged hand and wounded fingers reaching, before he retracts them and uses his other hand to (rightfully) hold one of his curls between two fingers. An outsider might think that he was playing with his hair, and who would he be to correct them? 

_Glen_ , bending himself backwards to ease the pain of a noble, reckless, tortured young man. Vincent, near the curtains as he closed the half-open window there, smiles in a way that Elliot might have tolerated if there clearly wasn’t something amiss about the way his eyes dart to Leo, asking for permission to explain. He’s given no discernable signal. “I offered. It’s the least I can do. Leo was the one who found you. If I didn’t repay him, Gil would go out of his way and we can’t have that.” 

It’s an inside joke with an unbearable punchline, but deep down, Leo knows that this somehow resonates in the grand scheme of things. Right. They weren’t telling Gil yet. Or Oz, for that matter, but strangely enough, it was Elliot’s own request to keep quiet about his recovery. Still, Elliot… doesn’t like this, whatever this is between them. The frown that settles on his face makes Leo’s heart shatter. It’s, unfortunately, a familiar expression: one of mild distrust and a poisonous sense of unease that would ruin any chance of Leo actually explaining himself. The sting of their last fight lives on in him, but it was one that he would have to brave for both of their sakes. He doesn’t have to pretend with Elliot. Outside of the window, rain beats quietly against the panes.

“If you’re fishing for a compliment, you’ll have to wait until _after_ it dries.” Elliot’s fingers cease their threading, his eyes scarcely leaving Leo’s for a single second, which forces Leo into the half-hearted action of swatting his hand away.  
  


“Could you excuse us, please?” 

“Of course,” Vincent says, all too pleased that Leo’s words aren’t accompanied by their telltale sneer whenever circumstance forces him to address him. Much to his chagrin. Elliot does soften up that impulsive streak, but he knows that will have to be done away with if Glen is to be fully realized. Dull scissors can cut fine, but he would rather not extend the effort if all it takes is to pull a few strings. All in due time. He takes no issue with departing, something akin to toothache pulling at his nerves and setting his jaw. Intimacy, he knows, isn’t a necessary or particularly cherished value of his; it’s not something that he deserves, nor can he stomach the sight of it for an extended period of time. At the very least, Leo can never claim disloyalty on his part.

Their eyes, moving as one, stay glued to the door until they can hear the sound of quieting footsteps echoing down the manor’s hall. Almost in unison, they let out a little sigh. 

“I could have handled that.” 

“Politely?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Rain. The aroma of Jasmine tea, soft and sweet. Elliot’s unbuttoned collar. Neither of them take a second breath. After a moment, Elliot finally allows himself to settle against the bed, his body crumbling the second that he’s out of view of his older brother. Another skill that he has developed: saving face. “Would you hand me my cup?”

Leo smiles softly. It feels wrong on his face. He obliges carefully, the bottom of the cup cradled between his palms for Elliot to take (with a tablespoon of cream and three sugars, Leo’s own brewed black). His touch lingers, warm fingers over his own until they’re drawn back.

“Has he been bothering you?”

“Vincent?”

“He’s following you like a _dog_.” Which, Leo knows from close observation and Elliot’s general distrust of the species, isn’t a compliment. 

“It’s not like that.” Although, as much as he hates to admit it, it very much is. Vincent is only a stone’s throw away from learning to fetch. “I didn’t think you were the jealous type.” 

Elliot’s good hand tightens on the cup and he almost sputters through his sip. “Jealous? _Of him_?! Absolutely not.” His sharp tone softens when he spies Leo’s grin hidden behind his own. “I just think it’s strange, that’s all. He’s never involved with anyone that he doesn’t use for his own gain. Well, Ada, I suppose — ” 

“That’s one way to put it,” Leo agrees with a shallow nod. _Strange_ doesn’t even begin to cover the devotion he’s received from what he considers to be a very one-sided deal. If anything, Vincent’s devotion is the all-consuming kind and turning away from it is the only way that Leo won’t see his own reflection. “... He thinks I’m the next Glen, Elliot.” 

It’s by no means an easy topic to breach. It sounds ridiculous leaving his mouth, but he knows it makes sense — and by extension, Elliot would understand if all the facts are presented to him. A tense silence follows. Elliot’s arms shake, needing to set down his cup before the tremble in his hands forces it to spill over. Leo takes it for him, staining his sleeve in the process.

“What? Glen? As in Glen _Baskerville_?”

_“Tell me about your village.” Elliot asked, less out-of-the-blue than he wanted it to seem. Leo’s mother’s birthday had just passed and they were on their back from Sablier, their flowers left at her unmarked grave._

_“It’s not all that interesting.”_

_“Tell me anyway.”_

_“There weren’t any books.”_

_Elliot leaned over and swatted him on the side of the head, shoulders pressed together. “That’s not what I mean!”_

_“I don’t remember much of it, if I’m being honest. I just remember feeling… I don’t know_ — _” Maybe Leo was feeling somber about visiting that grave. His old life seemed so far away. “_ — _Different than everyone else, in a sense.”_

_“I understand that.”_

_“Ah, so you see things too.” Leo nodded in mock understanding, which earned a jab of an elbow at his side._

_“Stop that. You… said you’d get headaches as well. It’s good that it’s not a problem for you anymore. That must have been annoying, though.”_

_Worry was the exact thing Leo had been trying to avoid this trip, but Elliot’s concern had always managed to warm him to the point of easy contentment. Through his shrug, he assured: “It could have been worse.”_

_“You’d let me know, right? If it got bad again?”_

Leo blinks, the scene in front of him not much different. Specks of yellowed light halo his master’s head. His eyes burn just like then. 

“I knew there was a reason Bernard allowed me to stay with you, and it wasn’t because you _pouted_ at him.” Through Elliot’s indignant noise, he continues. “It didn’t make sense at the time, but Vincent was the one to tell me why. … Do you remember James?”

Elliot, after what seems like an hour, swallows and nods, eyes wide as if seeing Leo for the first time all over again. Ice shoots through his veins, a cold sweat near his collar. James. The small, sad voice in his head. He doesn’t hear it anymore and he doesn’t need to ask why. 

“His parents were killed by chains. I knew that’s why I was taken away, but still, even in a place where we were all connected by that, I stood out. It sounds sad when I say it like that, doesn’t it?” 

“But my father… never believed in Glen. He thought it was a myth to preserve the honor of the Baskervilles.” His nose wrinkles. “Or that’s what he _told us at the time._ He probably just didn’t want to worry us. But the fact that it’s you — I thought Jack and Oz were one thing. How much were they keeping from me about you?” 

Leo’s lips press together. Manipulation is a more adequate description of what Elliot describes, but he knows that his equal has issues with articulating the core of what he’s feeling, especially when the lies are so tightly wound around objective truth. 

“But you’re not Glen. Not to me.” 

“Elliot. It’s not that s — “

“I think it’s simple enough. You’re still Leo.” The ‘ _my_ ’ hangs heavy on his tongue. “I don’t care what some hundred-year-old legend says. This doesn’t change a damn thing in my eyes. You’re the same annoyance I met back in Sablier and nothing anyone says will make me think otherwise, got it?” 

The sentiment strikes a particularly vulnerable spot in him. His instincts tell him to deny — Elliot wouldn’t understand, that the balance of control is something that he has struggled with for years and that the days pass to strengthen their inherited bond, but the conviction in his voice flattens his willingness to be right. “Alright,” is all he can think to say, his face hot. 

Fingers reach to card through Leo’s bangs, pushing them back past his forehead. “It’ll take some time to get used to, but… he actually did a decent job. It looks nice.” 

“Thank you,” Leo says, far away and still shocked that anyone would want to see him as anything other than the leader of the Baskervilles. 

Elliot groans and tugs at his bangs, not nearly hard enough to be seen as anything but endearing. “Hey. I… want to see it for myself. Let me decide then, okay?”

Leo gives in excruciatingly easy with Elliot staring directly at him. It’s like he’s under a magnifying glass, so lets his forehead rest against Elliot’s palm and allows his eyes to close, the weight of responsibility a burden that seems to be passed to him by mere touch. Elliot is more than happy to carry it for him.

“...So that would make you a Baskerville?” 

“Technically.” 

“Yeah, right.” Elliot scoffs and a hand encircles his wrist, not to shift the contact, but to catch his attention. 

“You shouldn’t judge others based on your own standard of right and wrong. I taught you that, didn’t I?” Leo’s gazing at him. His brows furrow and his free hand has a solitary finger lifted. 

Elliot has the audacity to blush back at him. He lowers himself to be eye-to-eye. “...Like I said, I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“You say that now.” 

“And I’ll keep saying it.” 

A part of him knows that there is more to discuss, the hazy logistics of it all, but Leo is content to let the moment settle. In Elliot’s hands, the world seems smaller. He desperately wants it to stay that way. 

The rain doesn't let up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've made it this far, thank you so much for keeping up with me and i hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> as always, please let me know what you think!


	3. hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glen makes an appearance.

If there is one thing Elliot hates above all else, it’s having to wait. He can’t stand queues at the library’s check-out desk (or the librarian that seems to never give him and Leo a break, even when they’re heatedly discussing the latest chapter of his favorite series: _Holy Knight_ ) or for the days to pass behind the curtain of his window, like a shroud covering his eyes and ears from the coming and goings of the outside world. He wakes up early to watch them sway in the wind. He’s _healing_ , supposedly, but it feels more like a prison sentence with how little he’s actually able to travel out of bed. It’s easier to think of it that way. Progress in that regard is by no means linear. Yes, he’s heard it all. His lows are particularly low, urges to claw at his bandages and let himself bleed all over again for a sin against the sinful. _Righteous,_ he knows that’s how he should feel, but instead of the glory that comes with protecting the Nightray name, the only thing his wounded body has allowed him to feel is an incredible excess of loneliness. 

He doesn’t know if he regrets it. He doesn’t know if he can regret it. _Heroes_ are allowed regret. They can shoulder the burden of their sacrifice and the world cheers. He was nothing more than his family’s pawn under the guise of virtue. His siblings, all but Gil (as Vincent’s involvement has been muddied and unexplained), weren’t really his, but were sworn to protect something larger than themselves: a lineage that outlasts them by centuries. Knowing what he did now, Leo could relate to that. 

_Leo._

As much as he understands (and as much as he’s still learning), that frayed thread has more followers than previously believed. He couldn’t begin to imagine the strain that his equal is under with his new responsibilities (which Leo neglects to mention whenever he checks on him, the stubborn bastard). It’s why his worry is more than precedented with Vincent sniffing around him the way he is. He can’t stand staring at the same off-white walls while the world — and, consequently, Leo — goes on without him. 

_Over my dead body._

Elliot climbs out of bed before he can think better of it. It’s not much of a challenge at first, though straightening his back in his typical rim-rod fashion makes the (constant) dull ache of his chest that much sharper. He fights through it as always, like the scion of the Nightray household should. (His mother would tap his back if he so much as slouched. _That servant of yours is rubbing off on you, dear_.)

If he’s asked, he’ll just tell Vincent he’s thirsty. It’s not like his older brother cares that he’ll be out of bed, anyway, in the few times he’s caught him wandering. His scolding isn’t the one he fears, but if Leo wants to yell at him for it, Elliot will happily endure it. Unsteady, pin-pricked feet lead him towards the door, the prospect sending flutters through him that he can’t contain, somewhere between a vague smattering of nervousness that Leo might, somehow, be fairing worse than he is and excitement to flounce that he’s not exactly as fragile as the bandages would have them believe. 

The hallway presents him with a worse fate. Funnily enough, it’s the sight of the floor that strikes him first, the same tile from his adolescence shocking him into stillness and then the sudden movement of a hand over his mouth. His vision blurs from the corners of his eyes until he’s completely enveloped in the mind-numbing haze of memory. His mouth waters. Nausea sweeps through his stomach faster than he can clutch the wall. The space is too empty to believe that their family has spent their years beating the same path. Birthdays fly past his eyes, meetings, dinners, bloodshed. And here Elliot is, alone and the root of it all.

_Don’t you realize you’re the only one I have left?_

All over again, his body isn’t his. Artificial breaths leave him, in and out. He neither feels them nor do they help with the way his chest stutters or his vision flares. 

Elliot hears a song he thought he had forgotten. Delicate notes play slightly off-tempo, but beautiful nonetheless. The sound guides him to one of the abandoned music rooms on the premises. He focuses, closes his eyes, and allows himself to follow. From a slit through the cracked door, Leo’s slumped over the keys, ten fingers slamming them down in frustration. 

“Damn it.”

_That idiot. Is he really stressing himself out over playing for me?_

It eases his nerves immediately. Leo’s face is buried in his palms, scrubbing at his eyes. Elliot wants nothing more to place his hands at his shoulders and tell him that he needed to rest, that it didn’t actually matter and how it isn’t something that he should get himself so worked up over, but he knew it was no use. He doesn’t want to disturb the scene in front of him. In his frustration, Leo is in his element, so he could shut his mouth and watch from afar. Fondly, it reminds him of the orphanage. Leo wouldn't let him within a ten foot radius without throwing some remark his way, so Elliot had to hone the important skill of cautious observation. It’s not often that he’s allowed to simply admire without the burden of his injuries, so he’ll take the moment for all it’s worth. (He’s still not used to the haircut, even with Leo’s habitual visits.)

He starts to play again. It’s different, this time. His hands aren’t shaking. His spine is straight and his fingers move swiftly over the keys, barely ghosting over them to make a sound. It’s calculated and polished and it scares him. Reverberations climb up the doorframe and pierce him through.The notes aren’t even wrong. They’re _too_ perfect, Leo’s signature lilt in his timing wiped away like a cherished smudge on glass. His personality, messy and careful, has been replaced with a dull imitation of elegance.

Elliot forgets how close he’s leaning against the door until his weight makes it creak. 

Leo doesn’t flinch.

“I know you’re there.”

Elliot’s lips press together. He’s tempted to step away as quietly as possible, feeling like he’s interrupted an intimate moment of some sort. In spite of the smarter instinct, his mouth moves for him: “Is this where you’ve been running off to?”

What he’s expecting when he walks into the doorway is to be made fun of for snooping, but what he wants and what he receives are two separate entities, constantly out of reach of one another. Leo doesn’t. His head is still bowed over the keys and his shadow seems to grow against the wall, a few wisps of black hanging over his eyes. They are suspended in the moment, dark eyes gazing into him and there’s a lack of recognition, showing little else than himself reflected back into those inverted flecks of gold and, for a millisecond, he is convinced that Leo just might hate him for all of this. … Or is it _Glen_ that’s looking back at him?

Leo breaks the silence, blinking and rubbing at an eye. Finally, something clicks and the air feels clearer. “Elliot?”

“Are you going to explain?”

“Are you going to explain why you’re out of bed?”

“I asked first.” 

Leo scowls, caught. “I… haven’t been sleeping well.”

“That's why it sounds like you’ve just woken up.” There’s a joke there, somewhere, but he’s lost the plot in the dissipating tension. Stupidly, inappropriately, nervously, Elliot laughs, which makes Leo look at him critically, but not nearly as hollow as before. 

“It’s your turn.” His lip twitches. Leo wants to smile, but the clench in his jaw forces him to stubbornly refuse. 

Instead, Elliot steps up and starts to fuss with the keys, unobstructed hand (which almost brushes Leo’s shoulder as it passes) gliding over the ivory just for the feel of it. “I wanted water.”

“Is that all?” 

“Yeah.” Elliot plays a few notes, the accompaniment to _Statice_. It speaks for him. Still, with the look he receives, his eyes roll. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sit with me,” which is Leo’s way of prying. 

This time, he doesn’t argue. It falls on the dull edge of embarrassment, how quick he is to jump at the offer. Leo isn’t scolding him — or, rather, he doesn’t have the heart to. He looks exhausted, so Elliot starts to play for him. It’s nothing special, slow without his other hand, but Leo, _his_ Leo, is looking at him, and that’s all he needs to keep his fingers on the keys. 

Leo joins him, using his left hand to match Elliot’s right on the minor scale. “You’re tired of your room, right? You’re not very good at hiding it.” 

“Of course I am.” The second part of his response registers only after he’s finished speaking, matching how Leo’s hand lingers on the keys for a second too long. It’s a slower rendition. One he doesn’t quite mind. “You’re the one who pays too much attention.” 

“Maybe,” he smiles. 

He’s not exactly wrong. 

“How long have you been in here?” Elliot asks through the sound of his throat clearing and the pink that suits his face. 

“Well, I fell asleep here last night, so... ” Leo starts, as if dozing off on a piano bench would be comfortable enough to accomplish, let alone parse as acceptable to Elliot himself. 

The song stops. 

“You — “

“Vincent will hear you.” 

Elliot really doesn’t want to deal with him either at the moment, so his voice lowers through a scoff. “You did _what_?”

“Not intentionally.” 

“Why aren’t you sleeping in your room?” Entirely affected — raw, even, his tone is as fragile as broken glass. A part of him knows, because he shares that sense of displacement. The estate is too quiet and, with current affairs (meaning Vincent’s sudden _infatuation_ ), they feel distant, packed away in separate rooms. Even if he wasn’t awake for it at the time, it brought him back to Lutwidge, where the shoddy excuse of Leo’s bed being occupied by half the library would be all they needed to share. It’s different now.

“When I’m not sleeping in yours, you mean?” 

“Whatever. You’re avoiding the question.” 

Leo hums, caught again. “I don’t like sleeping alone when I can avoid it. It was like that before we met, too.”

“You couldn’t have knocked?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s definitely not _fine_. Just… come in if you’re feeling restless. It doesn’t matter if I’m already asleep.” 

Leo’s hands fall into his lap, folded so tightly that his knuckles turn white. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


In fact, he hadn’t slept. 

Or, more appropriately, he assumes that he hadn’t. It’s something out of a dream, being shoved from the reaches of his consciousness and into the inky blackness that he assumes is supposed to represent the Abyss. His hands move ahead of cloudy thoughts. Numbness spreads down his limbs and his senses are dulled. He can’t smell or feel himself breathing, a mechanical process on loop, as if all necessity and autonomy had been stripped away from him. 

It’s the same tonight. He doesn’t realize where he is at first, following a path that’s settled into his bones (or one that his body, Leo’s body, knows well enough to guide him without an expressed intent). 

He’s standing at the foot of a bed. 

There’s a body under the covers. He’s paler than anything alive should be, blond wisps poking out from the sheets. Against the gloom of night, he stands out. There’s a power that rises in him with each breath in. Glen doesn’t know what to make of it. ...Is this a person?

No, it can’t be. He’s seen this type of malformation before. It’s something that should have never been created in the first place. Nothing more than a means to an end. Right now, he can rid of all the bonds that hold his soul captive. His host’s attachment to an abomination would be smeared into nonexistence, just as it had been a hundred years ago. 

This is… ‘Elliot’.

The object he recognizes as ‘Leo’ would be upset, naturally, but that could be just what is necessary to end their long-awaited game. It was nothing he hadn’t felt before in the days of Elliot’s recovery. He might even stop fighting his control entirely, which worked in nothing but his favor. The sword that Leo had salvaged isn’t at his side (and is thought to be hidden away by the host himself; a childish, effective trick to spite him). Really, all it would take is to stop the body’s breathing, wouldn’t it? Anything that comes after that could be deal with personally. Glen, as quiet as a shadow — inhumanly quiet — circles to Elliot’s side and takes a pillow into his hands.

Closed eyes are seen above the hem of a comforter. The sound of one young man’s slow breathing.

Even. Unsuspecting. 

How pathetic.

Elliot wakes to something heavy striking the ground. It’s a sound he recognizes at his core, a weighty mass bracing hard enough to create a sound so hollow against the tiles of the Nightray manor. He sits up before his eyes snap open, fingers tangled into the sheets underneath him. Did he —

In the dark, it’s hard to make out the heap that’s slumped against the floor. It’s moving, which is a better sign than Elliot hopes. The smell of blood doesn’t singe his nostrils and, just then, does he recognize the patterning of Leo’s nightgown. 

Something is wrong. 

_Very_ wrong.

“ _I’m so sorry_ , Elliot.” Leo’s hands press over his ears. Somehow, maybe by his own volition, he has backed himself up against the wall, as far away from the bed as possible. His words are dulled by the hitch in his breath as they collide with Elliot's own confused apology, sobs suppressed in a way that makes his entire body shake, almost incapable of completing a single, uninterrupted breath. His eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. He’s been here before. Not exactly here, but somewhere like it. Leo’s shoulders tremble as he tries to get the words out, but it looks painful to even speak in his position, so Elliot continues. 

“Leo, hey, hey,” he whispers. He moves too quickly in an attempt to climb out of bed, teeth grit and a curse expelled under his breath as a shock of pain stills his nerves momentarily. A second later, his knees are on the floor, taking each centimeter closer to Leo as a personal victory. 

“Don’t.” Sharper than he’s ever heard him, Elliot imagines that this is the way that he talks to Vincent. Either way, it stops him dead in his tracks. Leo holds his own left hand against the floor. “Please, just — stay there.”

In what feels like his next shaky breath, Leo bolts out the door, tilting the scales and leaving Elliot staring at the space that he occupied.

He might hate this more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an elliot chapter!
> 
> naturally, elliot has a lot of unexplored trauma and i feel like, even after he comes to terms with the truth about himself (which is still incredibly murky), he'd have trouble adjusting to his new circumstances. 
> 
> leo... has issues of his own! :-) having those elements interact was something i was really excited to try out. but as always, tell me your thoughts!
> 
> this chapter's song is hallelujah by leonard cohen. i listened to the rufus wainwright cover while drafting it!


End file.
